This Big Damn Wedding
by Slytherpire
Summary: Altair and Malik are assigned a novice level mission. Al Mualim insists that it's important, but the people of Masyaf seem to think he has another reason for forcing them to play the part of lovers. AltMal
1. It Can't Be THAT Important

Okay, so I was surfing the web trying to find some inspiration to write, looking around at clichés and such, and came across the old pretend-to-be-a-couple-and-conveniently-fall-in-love. So, of course, I had to do it…I love clichés. Sorry if you don't I'm up for other story suggestions!

Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed, or anything associated with it.

* * *

"I don't understand! Why am I being placed on this assignment? Information!? I am no novice! I do not have time to be crawling around the streets doing a job any half-wit-"

"Altair! Hold your tongue! _You forget your place_."

His mouth closed shut with an audible _clack_. He took a step back, bowing his head in anger as a flush crawled up to his cheeks. A novice mission? For him? He was Masyaf's greatest assassin – greater than Al Mualim himself, some whispered. Altair was inclined to believe it, though Malik said it was merely a deflection for people avoiding his wrath.

But he had the skills to back it up, the technique behind the blade, and he had offered to defend his reputation on plenty of accounts. They were both still smarting bruises from the last encounter.

Al Mualim slammed his hands on his desk.

"It is not a novice assignment, though with your recent arrogance I am on the verge of demoting you!"

Altair stepped forward at that, but a discreet hand on the back of his robes held him in place. The assassin looked over his shoulder, prepared to send a scathing comment Malik's way, but the look on his rival's face stopped him. He looked almost…concerned. Altair focused back on Al Mualim. He was pissed.

"As it is, however," the old man said, turning to pace the length of his desk, "you are the only one I trust to obtain this information. Allah knows why – I cannot understand how you accomplish the tasks I give you with your rash way of reacting to every situation."

Altair stepped forward angrily, tearing away from the hand that moved to his shoulder.

"It is not rashness that guides my movements, but confidence." He said, his fists clenched tightly, betraying the will that he exerted to keep himself from defending his honor physically.

Malik let out a hopeless sigh from behind him, which he chose to ignore. He knew how his rival (and friend as well, he could not forget that even in these moments) felt about his outspoken tendencies, and he thought it stupid. How was one supposed to defend himself in battle if he could not even hold at bay the verbal slights? How did an assassin maintain the respect of his peers if his worth was questioned?

It didn't make sense, but Malik always had a strange way of looking at things. He thought that it took strength to hold back from angry retorts. Altair knew, however, that he was wrong.

It took strength to defend his honor against the jealousy of old man of Masyaf.

Al Mualim halted mid-stride, seeming to have come to some sort of conclusion. He turned to Altair, mouth pursed and eyes angry, and said simply, "Malik will go with you."

"What?!" he cried involuntarily, "It is a simple mission! I do not need him to-"

The master cut him off with a sword-like motion of his arm.

"He will go with you, and that is final. Now go, ready yourselves and meet Kadar at the entrance to the city. I will have him give you the details of the assignment. I cannot deal with you now." He turned abruptly, robes twirling, signally an obvious close to the conversation.

"Altair. Let us go."

Malik's eyes were demanding as he said this, his first words of the night. Neither he nor Al Mualim had left room for argument, but Altair would not cave. He would make room.

"We are not done." He seethed.

The expression on Al Mualim's face when he turned around was the sign that he had gone too far. He quailed slightly, hesitated, jaw clenched tightly even as he turned to the door.

They were done. He would go…but not quietly.

Allah help him if, when he got back, there wouldn't be hell to pay. He expected there to be a political assassination awaiting him on his return home, if only to reassert his position in the brotherhood. If there wasn't, well…perhaps then, Al Mualim would be willing to defend his reputation against the rumors.

He was growing old…Altair was better…It was time he stepped down and a new leader guided Masyaf…

He would see.

Altair turned huffily and exited ahead of Malik, conscious of the cutting figure he made as he left the stronghold. He passed by the stairs leading to his, Malik, and Kadar's quarters. There was nothing he needed in their room. There was nothing he had left to do, besides say farewell to Kadar, as he usually did. It was a surprise Al Mualim hadn't assigned him as well. The man seemed to go out of his way to insult Altair's capabilities.

"Altair, slow down!" Malik came jogging up to his side, a travel sack in hand that he hadn't had before, "Honestly, your anger will get you nowhere but dead. Where are your things? Why are you so eager to leave?"

"I do not need comforts on my travels."

Even as he said the words, he winced at what he was sure would be a cutting response. He'd been snubbing Malik particularly harshly today, and, despite the fact that the bastard deserved it, he knew he'd get a licking.

"Comforts?" Malik snarled, throwing his hands up in the air in an uncharacteristic show of his frustration, "What is wrong with you?! You've been acting like a complete asshole the whole day! I wonder at your sanity in times like this, and how it is you have retained your rank for as long as you have."

He glared at his friend steadily, but he knew what kind of a mood Altair was in. There was nothing he could do to budge the idiot from his opinions when he had that look in his eyes. It was like getting Kadar to practice pick pocketing.

'_But why should I practice picking someone's pockets when they're alive, when I can just kill them and take _all_ their things?'_

That's what Malik got for letting him hang out with Altair so often.

"Fine." He said to Altair, "You're right! An assassin as great as you has no needs of such _comforts_ as food for the journey and a woolen cloak for the freezing nights ahead."

The master assassin snorted. He could find something to eat along the way. The nights weren't _that _cold, either. Malik was just being a woman. He decided to voice this particular fact.

His friend's response to this was to simply throw his hands up once more, before storming off down the hill alone. Altair waited a moment before following him. He didn't want it to seem like _Malik _was the one leading.

Strangely enough, Kadar was already waiting off to the side of the road when they arrived. He was panting slightly, which Altair supposed meant he must have run there. Honestly, the boy was so frightened of Al Mualim that sometimes Altair worried what he would be willing to do for the old man. What a fool the boy was.

Perhaps he was just being vindictive, he thought to himself. Kadar was a good enough boy. It might have been the inactivity of his recent time that was getting to his thoughts. Perhaps he was being cruel for no reason but because there was nothing better to do.

Or not. His sudden moment of consideration passed and he glared over at the anxious boy. He _was_ being forced on a stupid, novice-level, information-gathering mission. He had a right to be angry, and to take it out on whomever he pleased.

The fearful look on Kadar's face made him amend that thought. Perhaps he'd wait until he was on the road, and start another argument with Malik to blow off some steam.

"Kadar, my friend, your speed and devotion never fail to amaze me. You've beaten us here even having just gotten Al Mualim's orders."

Just as Altair had known he would, the boy flushed a deep, cherry red. Malik shot him a look of exasperation and contempt. How had he managed to switch moods so quickly?

"He told me to hurry, Altair," Kadar said, eyes flickering anxiously between the ground and his face, "I knew that you would be eager to leave, and didn't wish to delay you."

"Not at all," Altair smiled easily, "Time has been saved by you relaying the message. I would have gone to find you in order to say farewell."

Kadar's face turned a deeper red, somehow. He mumbled something before Malik stepped forward to get things moving.

"The orders, Kadar." he bit out shortly, "Despite what Altair says, we _are_ in a hurry."

Altair opened his mouth to remind him who it was who had been lagging behind earlier, but Malik cut him off with a pair of narrowed eyes his way. He bared his teeth slightly in response, but quieted all the same. The faster they got moving, the faster he could end this. And when he came back, then he would get what was his.

Kadar didn't notice his evil, greedy smile. He was already rattling off the orders Al Mualim had given him to relay.

"The master said that the man you are looking for is living in a little villa roughly three hundred kilometers to the northeast. The festival you will be attending is in celebration of his marriage t-"

"Kadar," Malik said gently, "Please, leave the bigger things. What we do not know is our specific orders for the assignment."

Kadar nodded anxiously, "Of course, brother," he said, "You are to take one of the carriages to the villa-"

"What?!" Altair exclaimed for the second time that evening, effectively cutting him off, "A carriage? Why waste time when we could simply gallop there on singular horses? We would be there in half the time!"

Malik shot him a dirty look, but Kadar only spoke quicker, eager to defend Al Mualim's plan and appease Altair.

"The master wants you well rested for the festival, minds clear in order to act your roles well. You are to play the part of nobles, and stay close to Khalid Al-Rashad and his circle of close friends. The festival you are attending is relatively intimate, considering the nature of the celebration, so everyone there will be close. The two men you are playing have been in correspondence with Al-Rashad through letters for the past fifteen years. They have never met face to face, so it should be an easy part to play. The information should be simple to extract."

"Simple?" Altair asked hotly, "Then why place a master assassin on this assignment?"

Despite the fact that this was obviously a rhetorical question, Kadar stuttered out an answer.

"Well, I imagine he trusted you to do it despite any…despite how…uncomfortable, you may find the, uh…situation…" his face was red again.

"Uncomfortable?" Altair asked in confusion, and looked over to see Malik wearing a similar expression, "What do you mean by this? What do we have to do?" he paused, "Who are we?"

Kadar looked at the ground again, imitating a tomato and curiously avoiding the eye of his brother, in particular.

"I thought Al Mualim would have told you. It is strange to have to do it myself. I did not w-"

"Spit it out!" Malik demanded impatiently, his brows furrowed.

Kadar hesitated for a moment before looking up at Altair, his ears bright red from all the blood rushing to his face.

"You will be playing the parts of Amir and Makhi, two lovers that have been in corres-"

"Lovers?!" Altair cried, "Lovers? But how is this?! Malik and I are rivals! Friends on good days, I…we are assassins! How are we to pretend to be in love? Al Mualim is fucked up! If he thinks I am going to do this then he has lost all form of sanity!" he turned to his friend, "Malik, let us go. We will confront the master as to this madness."

However, when he faced Malik, he saw the pursed lips and hard resolve in the assassin's face. It surprised him, and he could not grasp the idea that his friend was actually considering going along with this.

"Malik, what are you thinking? You cannot seriously be willing to partake in this?"

The man looked up to meet his dark eyes with his own chocolate brown orbs. His glance was curious.

"Al Mualim spoke of a demotion. I do not wish to risk my rank simply because I must stand at your arm for a few days." He said with resolve, "It is odd that you would. I know your love for the name 'master'."

Altair frowned at him. What was he saying? It didn't seem as though he fully understood all that Al Mualim was asking of them. It wasn't just a matter of standing beside one another. Lovers slept together, they…kissed. They confessed their love to each other frequently and held hands and…and…

He tried to banish from his mind the image of Malik leaning over, his smooth lips brushing over Altair's own chapped ones, the slight dusting of skin on skin, and how warm his dark hands would be as he held Altair's face to his…

The thought brought him up short. His collar was too tight all of a sudden, and he felt all hot and uncomfortable. It was horrible, he thought. He would not survive an hour of it, nevermind a whole two days.

"We will simply be playing the parts," Malik said with an eyebrow raised as he watched his friend, "Your reluctance to participate is curious. Perhaps it hits too close to home?"

There was a short silence on the side of the road. The carriages near the stables were loud with activity, but it seemed far away. He felt deaf from shock at the accusation. Was Malik insinuating that Altair…? His face flushed – with _anger_, more than embarrassment.

Suddenly, Kadar burst into laughter, staring up at his own brother with dark cheeks and a guilty expression. He seemed to be enjoying this, strangely enough. His eyes were bright with merriment and…something else.

Altair wasn't paying much attention. He was still having troubles wrapping his head around what Malik had said. What kind of a friend would accuse another of that? He hadn't done anything strange, had he? Malik didn't think that he enjoyed their sparring matches in a…different way…did he?

He snapped his mouth shut, realizing that it had been hanging open slightly.

What was he supposed to say? He wasn't even sure if Malik was being serious. What kind of a response could he give to that?

"That's absurd." He grunted.

But Malik was already moving to the center of the road, where one of the carriages was approaching. His steps were light and jovial, and it was clear that he was only half-listening to Altair. It bothered the master assassin that his friend glossed over something so easily that would probably nag his thoughts for the entirety of the journey. He wanted him to suffer with him.

"Malik." He tried, tailing after his friend.

He stopped when he saw the carriage,

"What is_ that_?"

"Why, it's your luxurious ride, my lords," the man in the front of the carriage answered, eyes twinkling and a cheeky grin plastered on his face, "Fit for the lovers of Masyaf."

Altair's face heated up in embarrassment as he stared at the beastly thing. It was death on wheels. It was ugly.

It was…

…purple. The back tarp was open and the contents of the thing could be seen, all plush, vibrant pillows with gold embroidery and large, garish tassels. The walls were draped with purple and red satin; the floor was covered in cushions and one gigantic, linen blanket the color of a rotten plum. There wasn't an inch of wood to be seen. It looked like a little girl had thrown up all her dreams into the back of the carriage.

He physically recoiled from the sight.

"Fit for the lovers of Masyaf?" he spat, his nose crunched up in revulsion, "What nonsense is that? How fast can we get out of here? Before anyone sees?"

The driver didn't answer, he was busy looking back at the city, and Altair had a feeling he knew why.

He followed the man's gaze apprehensively, dimly aware of a loud noise coming from Masyaf. It sounded like the squealing of a bunch of young fan girls, but he realized as he turned that it was a crowd of men – of full grown, high ranking assassins, to be exact. They were all wearing huge, goofy smiles on their stupid faces, arms waved and waving farewell. Some of them were laughing.

He wanted to pull his hidden blade on their asses.

Looking over at Malik, he saw that the other man was equally as embarrassed, though there was a slight twinkle in his eye. Was he…getting off on this?

…He was probably laughing at poor Altair's expense. What a bastard.

Without another glance in the direction of his terrible goodbye party, Altair jumped into the back of the cushiony hell and sat as proudly as he could on a bright pink cushion. He fumed while he waited for Malik to say goodbye to his brother, and didn't bother to wave back when Kadar yelled over the swelling crowd.

The little asshole deserved to be whacked upside the head. But, more than anything else, Altair was fuming at the evil Master of Masyaf, and his sinister plans. If this was his idea of humbling Altair…well, he was gong to show him. Let them laugh at the pink cushions and metallic tassels all they wanted. He would get the information in no time, and come back earlier with Al-Rashad's head.

He would get Malik as well, of course. If he had to suffer, then so would his friend. So would the men at the festival. Hell, he'd dowse the place in hot oil and set the flowers and linens afire.

Altair sighed and moved to close the back tarp, angry at himself as his stomach started to rumble. He banished the thoughts of revenge and curled up under the singular blanket, fully intent on being unconscious the whole trip.

The blanket wasn't very big…

He shifted.

It was a little chilly…

Altair looked over at Malik, who was watching him with dark, twinkling eyes and a huge, vicious smile.

Fuck you, Altair thought. It wasn't _that _cold, really…

* * *

So, that was my first chapter…I don't know how long it's going to go, where it's going to end, or what's going to happen in between. I like suggestions, just to let everyone know. I don't know if most people have the thing planned out in their head when they go to write it. I usually have the main framework down, but I love little ideas people give me.

If you want to see something happen, tell me. I really do appreciate it. Whether or not I do it, well, that depends on what it is.

Anyway, I hope you like it. There are far too few Altair/Malik stories out there. ADD TO THEM! Please. And Ezio/Leonardo and Desmond/Shaun as well.

Review please!


	2. A Cold Night?

I LOVE YOU ALL SOOOOO MUCH!

Really.

I got so many nice reviews – you guys are wonderful! They made me feel great, and ultimately extended this chapter. It was originally only 2000 words, but I got inspired, and it ended a lot better.

(The image I have of the last scene is great. If I had any artistic ability, I'd draw it).

Hope you love it!

* * *

They'd been riding in the carriage for _hours_. There was nothing to look at, but the blasted fluffy cushion and horrendously bright walls. There was nothing to do, but to start up a boring conversation. There was nothing to eat, and, damn, he was hungry.

Didn't the horses need to stop? Weren't they tired at all? It had probably been at least a good six hours. He thought that they'd need some sort of rest, and then he'd go and find some food. But it seemed there was more to these horses than their beautiful coloring.

He wasn't about to ask Malik for food. The assassin had peeled open a piece of cheese sealed in wax not an hour earlier, broken it in half, and pointedly returned the other half to his travel sack with a look his way. He'd only give Altair a piece if he asked, the master assassin knew.

Ha! Well…

He didn't need food. He'd gone days without it before, and he wasn't about to risk his dignity for a piece of cheese. The horses would stop eventually, and then he would wander into the forest. Perhaps he would find a fig tree, or a stray rabbit that he could kill from a distance with his throwing knives.

Altair suppressed a shiver and frowned at the linen cloth covering his legs. He'd folded it over once, twice, three times, before he realized that he could fold it as small as he wanted and it wouldn't make him any warmer. He needed _wool_, dammit. He needed something _warm_. But he wasn't about to ask for it.

Malik looked up at him from his book, brow raised at his friend's not-so-subtle shivering.

"Are you cold, Altair?" he asked, making the _ir_ at the end of his name into a sort of taunting purr.

Altair glared at him, straightening his posture from where he sat, cross-legged on his pink cushion.

"No," he bit out.

That was all he said for the next hour, as he glared stubbornly at the book in his friend's hands. It didn't have a name, but he knew it was stupid, just because he knew that everything Malik read was stupid.

Damn assassin and his thick woolen cloak.

The older man shifted suddenly, closing his book with a _thunk_ and a sigh, apparently bored of reading. He set it on the satin sheets beside him, stretching his hands tiredly above his head. He didn't even glance Altair's way as his hands went for the clasp of his robes, and he began to pick them open with tanned, nimble fingers.

"What are you doing?" Altair asked sharply, irritated that his friend hadn't noticed his sulking.

The other assassin looked up in surprise. He actually seemed shocked to see that Altair was still sitting there, staring at him.

"Undressing for bed," he responded slowly, as though it were obvious. He returned his attention to the many belts and buckles of his attire, "I am unsure of how you sleep, but I prefer not to get tangled in my cloak and wake up sporting many buckle-shaped indents in my skin the next morning."

Altair frowned at the lie, "We sleep in the same room."

"We do, but you never fail to return while I am sleeping, and I do not make it a habit of pulling back your covers the next morning just to see what you are or are not wearing." He said in a bored tone.

The white-robed assassin sighed and leaned back in restlessness and anxiety. He didn't mind being uncomfortable, but he felt like he was being mocked when surrounded by all the cushions, tassels and rich material. It was like everything had been arranged for him to be as out of place as possible. He hated it. He wanted to go home. He wanted Malik to pay attention to him.

Malik shifted to get the last buckle around his throat, and began to peel the material away from his skin. The brown wool was pulled away to reveal evenly-tanned skin, scarred here and there by nicks from training and near-misses on the occasional assignment that was screwed worse than normal by unforeseen events.

They'd been friends for a very long time, and Altair was surprised as his eyes roamed over Malik's body – surprised that he could recall the source of every one of them.

He could remember one of those events, which happened during an assignment that they had both been given during their earlier years as assassins. It had been the simple mission of assassinating one of the southern lord's daughters.

It was supposed to be a sort of exercise for them, a situation they were given in order to get comfortable with the process. Everything up to the escape had gone easily. The rest had gone terribly awry.

It was, he embarrassingly had to admit, partially his fault. They'd been on their way back from the lord's castle, and the death bells had just begun their song. In order to stay out of the eye of the swarming guards, Altair had taken to the higher walkways. He'd just made his way to the top of the city's wall and had readied himself to jump over, when he saw what was on the other side.

Water, water, everywhere.

Needless to say, he'd freaked.

Mid-jump, he'd tried to change the course of his fall, and ended up clinging, one-handed to the wall. The water loomed darkly beneath him.

"_Malik!"_ yes, he might have begun to desperately call his friend. But he was going to die! What choice did he have? _"Malik! Help! T-there's water everywhere! I – Malik, help! I-I-I don't know how to swim!"_

Well, _that_ was an embarrassing confession. And, to top it off, one of the archers had heard, and come running in the direction of the assassin. Just as Malik arrived to help, he'd been struck with an arrow.

And you know what he'd done when he got there? He'd just pushed Altair over the edge. He didn't seem to understand that, not only could Altair _not swim_, but large bodies of water freaked him out (probably because of said fact). He'd clung desperately to his friend as Malik swam them both to shore, arrow still stuck in his arm.

He still had the scar, Altair could see. A silver, thin thread where Malik had later gotten him to pull it out. By the sounds of it, it had hurt like a bitch…a little more than it had to.

"Am I so fascinating with no clothes on?" Malik bit out, his cloak hanging halfway off his torso as Altair's eyes trailed along his collarbone.

Altair snorted in denial, turning his gaze away and towards the back of the carriage. He suddenly felt very warm, and blamed it on the closed tarp. He got up to open it, pointedly ignoring his friend.

The cool night felt good on his skin, the darkness calming his jittery nerves and releasing the tension from his muscles. This was where he was meant to be, clothed in the black shadows of the road, on his way to track a dangerous target.

Not in a stupid, purple carriage with a naked rival mocking him the whole way. Stupid bastard.

"Altair, close that and come back in. I will not be taking care of you when you catch an illness from the cold." Malik grunted, moving over to stand behind him.

The white-robed assassin turned to face him, irritated and jittery all over again.

"If you're cold, go put your cloak back on. I, for one, am comfortable here."

"You're being stupid." An angry glare, "Al Mualim will be furious when he hears that the mission was delayed because you were stupid enough to give yourself hypothermia!"

Altair snarled, his temper easily flaring. He'd been stuck in this uncomfortable carriage for hours and hadn't had anything to eat or drink for longer. He didn't want to listen and he didn't want to go back in and endure any more time sitting uncomfortably on that stupid pink cushion. He especially didn't want to hear anything about Al Mualim and his meaningless assignment.

"I am not going to get sick!" he barked, "Now go to bed and leave me be before you are forced to bear the full brunt of my anger."

"Ha!" Malik laughed spitefully, "What a fearful thing to see! The Kitten of Masyaf bares his claws!"

It was a stupid nickname he'd made up long ago, sometime around the water incident, and Altair hated it. He was an assassin, dammit, better than Al Mualim himself.

He lunged forward in anger, thumb going to the release on his hidden blade. He'd give him more than a _scratch_ for that comment.

Malik jumped towards him to catch his arm, throwing his weight on him in defense, but just as he did so, the carriage turned a particularly sharp corner, throwing the two of them over the edge, and into the night.

"Sorry! Just trying to avoid that washout!" the driver's voice called back carelessly.

_Splash!_

Altair gasped as they landed in the filthy puddle, the sound of the water making him momentarily cry out in terror. He desperately grabbed around Malik's shoulders for support, pulling the older man closer even as his mind supplied him with the realization that it was just a puddle.

He held on tight, disturbed and gasping for air. Every lungful was like a relieved cry of _it's there-it's there-it's there…_

Malik wrenched the both of them into a standing position.

"Driver!" he cried, waving after the carriage, "Stop! Wait! We're…" he cursed under his breath, looking at his friend with a frown, "…we're fucked. Allah, it's just a puddle, Altair! You should be more worried about what Al Mualim will do when we get back."

Altair held himself still for a moment, waiting for his heart to slow down and common sense to take over. The world seemed painfully bright, stark in its clear reality. Everything settled into focus as his momentary shock slipped away, and he jumped back from Malik as though he had been burned.

The carriage trundled away, oblivious as to its two missing passengers.

"We will_ not_ be going back!" Altair frowned at the implied insult, already making his way up the road. He looked back to check if Malik was following him, "The carriage will stop eventually and the driver will notice we're gone."

Malik blinked once, surprised at Altair's persistence.

"True," he allowed, "I just thought that you would be taking this opportunity to high-tail it back to Masyaf."

He stepped up to walk beside the master assassin, surprised when he heard him mumble something like, "hafta go…"

"What?" Malik nudged him curiously, an eyebrow raised.

"I said that I knew you'd go on, and it would be stupid for me to turn back now. You'd probably get yourself killed."

Malik paused, curious.

"And you'd blame me if you got demoted, so of course I have to go." Altair added with a vague wave of his arm, already wanting the comment to be forgotten.

A smile made its way onto Malik's face, even as a shiver wracked through his body.

"Are you cold, Malik?" Altair asked, his eyes twinkling slightly. He drew out the _l _of his name as a taunt, glancing at him with a smirk.

Yes, he was, and, unlike Altair, Malik was not stupid enough to deny it.

"Yes," he bit out, arms crossed over his bare torso as he stared resolutely ahead.

He couldn't see the carriage anywhere. Not even the bright light of the outer torches glowed in the distance. They'd be walking all night, if the driver didn't stop soon. He'd freeze.

Suddenly, Altair grabbed him around the wrist and pulled him flush up against his bare body. Malik's eyes widened in surprise, and he stared in confusion at Altair's bear chest as the heavy weight of his cloak settled around his shoulders.

"We can share," Altair grinned, pulling him close as he stretched the warm fabric around them.

Malik grinned back, aware of the dark red that his face had taken on. He'd never been so close to Altair except in combat, and they were usually fully clothed. It wasn't embarrassing, it was…nice. He didn't know why his face was so red, and he chose, for once, not to overanalyze it.

Altair's skin was startlingly warm, though that was probably only because of how cold Malik was. The taught, hard muscle of his torso pressed against his own, and it felt strangely comfortable, like he was leaning against a marble pillar that had been standing out in the sun.

That was a perfect vision, though it was slightly backwards. If anything, Altair leaned on him.

He smiled, careful not to let Altair see. He could be a sap sometimes, but then, they'd been friends for years. He was entitled to it.

They walked like that for a while.

* * *

When they finally caught up with the carriage, it was to see the driver cursing himself and fumbling with the horses' reins. His brow was furrowed and there was sweat on his upper lip as he muttered to himself.

The horse didn't seem to appreciate this treatment, rearing its large, black head out of his hands, snorting and…growling?

Altair arched a brow.

The driver flicked his hair out of his face and glanced down the road. He stopped, eyes widening as he spotted the two of them – cold, shivering, and pressed up against each other under Altair's white cloak.

"Thank Allah!" he proclaimed, relieving the horse of his rough treatment as he practically ran to meet them, "I just stopped to give the horses a break for the night, and I found the two of you missing. Allah, I was so…scared, flustered…ugh, the road is too narrow to turn around on, so I was going to take Morrow and run after you, but I wasn't sure if I should leave the carriage…"

He stopped speaking suddenly, his face breaking out into a smile.

"I am so relieved you caught up! Now, there will be no time lost. Al Mualim will be grateful." The expression on his face was quickly schooled to that of a serious, seasoned driver, "But do not jump out again. It is dangerous. What were you thinking?"

"Jump out?!" Altair cried in anger. The driver had turned around and was returning to the front of the carriage, apparently where he would sleep. The question seemed to be rhetorical, "Your-"

"Altair." Malik said firmly, using the same tone he had in Al Mualim's presence, "Arguing will get us nowhere. Come, we must eat something and rest. Tomorrow we arrive at the villa."

He slipped out from under the cloak and climbed into the carriage, his skin uneven with goosebumps. Altair watched after him for a moment, reluctant to let the driver's comment off just like that. He looked over at the man, who was making his bed up with some sheets, and opened his mouth to say something.

Just as he did, though, a strange prickling sensation made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He was familiar with this feeling, and his automatic reaction was to drop into a diagonal front roll, unsheathe his blades and come up facing the source of the feeling.

_Wo-HOOOOOOOOOOOooo_.

Altair pursed his lips, looking at the small, skinny jackal with an irritated stare. It blinked back, seeming to say, 'You stupid man, you don't even know the difference between a canine and a guard.'

He glared at it. Perhaps he should stab it through the head just t-

"Altair!" Malik called irritably, causing his head to snap in the direction of the carriage, "Hurry or I will leave you cold and hungry for the remainder of the night!"

That sounded horrible.

He straightened up, returned his hidden blade and walked over to the carriage. Just as he was about to open the flap and jump in, however, he took one last look down the road.

The jackal was gone. There was nothing but dirt and scattered clumps of trees, leading all the way back home. There was nothing to stop him from stealing Morrow and riding off into the night. He would get to Masyaf before the sun rose, and he would be demoted. It would take him barely a month to regain his title, and in that time he would be treated the same. Al Mualim would still choose him for the same missions, Kadar would continue to worship the ground he walked upon…

But he would not go, he knew, because Malik intended to go through with this, and Altair would not hold his desires from him. They had been rivals for a long time, but they had been friends even longer. Altair bitched and whined and fought with him, but he would never truly hurt him.

Not on purpose. Never.

He jumped the edge of the carriage stealthily and was greeted with the other half of the cheese wedge, a tightly wrapped sausage and some beans.

"You take less time to kill a man than you do to enter a carriage," Malik quirked his brow, as if to say, 'What did you do to the driver?'

Altair grinned around the sausage he was devouring, "Just checking to make sure we are safe," he said happily.

He felt strangely light, looking at Malik, like he was about to burst into a million little pieces. Perhaps it was the reminiscing about the past, or the fall into the puddle and the long walk to catch up, but the assassin felt like a sap. He needed to sleep, before he said something he'd regret.

He inhaled the rest of the food expertly, before looking at Malik with a small grin.

"You said something about keeping me warm tonight?" he smirked.

It had the desired effect. His friend's cheeks burned brightly for a moment, though whether that was from anger or embarrassment, he couldn't say. Either way, it entertained him. It was hard to see Malik flustered – he and Kadar made a sort of game out of it.

"Yes," Malik frowned at him, "With a woolen blanket, though I daresay I might withhold it from you now."

He whipped said blanket out of his travelsack and settled himself under it, somehow managing to give the impression that he was going to sleep, with his nose pointed haughtily in the air. He waited a beat, and, sure enough, Altair was silent. Malik gave him an inquiring look.

"I'm not cold." The assassin huffed, crossing his arms and trying to hide the goosebumps on his bare chest.

Instead of responding, Malik rolled his eyes and lashed out a hand to grab his friend's sleeve. He pulled him under, and the blanket was small enough that they had to touch. It didn't bother him, really. He'd slept like this with other assassins, who'd either lost their supplies or…

…had lost their supplies. Altair was really the only one he'd met too stubborn (or too stupid) to not bring a blanket.

He closed his eyes, ready to drift off.

…

He cracked one open, and took a look at Altair. He'd settled his head onto a pink cushion, his breathing slowed, not quite asleep yet, and a small dusting of pink gracing his cheeks. Malik quirked an eyebrow at this, but chose to ignore it. He settled down on his own pillow, which was gold.

…

…

He opened his eyes again, suddenly feeling very warm. Altair shifted, apparently feeling the same, and tore his cloak off before he lay back down once more. Their chests pressed against each other, and Malik had to bite his lip to keep silent. Altair was not like the other assassins. Being pressed up bare against a half-naked Altair felt almost…intimate.

The carriage seemed to heat up another hundred degrees.

Suddenly, Altair cracked his eyes open as well, jumping a little when he saw that his friend was still awake.

"Malik," he whispered, "it's really hot under here. Maybe we should use another blanket?"

Instead of answering, Malik whipped off the wool. He replaced it with one of the satin sheets, and it seemed to help a little. At least, he could fall asleep after that.

Sort of.

* * *

Woo! Another chapter! I apologize for the strange sound my jackal made. I attempted to find out what one sounded like, and ended up listening to a hyena-jackal call on youtube. I sat there for about five minutes, think 'huh…so how the hell do I spell that?' When I read it over, I realized that it sounded like it was cheering.

Aw, well.

I hope you liked it!

Thank you again for all your reviews! They made me burst with happiness! I love you XD!!!

NOTE: I have run out of assassin stories, again. I go through that stuff like a demon (I think there's something wrong with me). As soon as I find a cache on the internet, I go through it in like, two days, so if any of you have any secret slash story hiding places, please point me in that direction! Thanks!


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